


Hold My Hand, It's a Long Way Down

by hedgerowhag



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, cliche dark forest trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought I had dreamt you on that eve, just a fancy of my mind.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold My Hand, It's a Long Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [ "Bottom of the River"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bimam2j2gEg) by Delta Rae, the story itself was initially inspired by the fairy tale [ The Golden Hair](http://russian-crafts.com/russian-folk-tales/golden-hair-russian-tale.html) but because I typed up the majority of it while watching Crimson Peak it may have had something to do with it too. 
> 
> This is a slight re-take on my previous role-reversed fic 'Ismere' as it follows the same trope, but I wanted to see how it would play out with the characters in their "correct" roles.
> 
> I will probably get back to this fic and re-edit it... eventually. Also, don't kill me for fucking up the middle-earth geography.
> 
> Please read the end note!

Bellow the slopes of the lone mountain, upon the shivering moors there was a kingdom called Dale, bordered by the black tides of an ancient forest. Many an age ago the city had been no more than a settling for the travelling folk of some distant place and yet it became the land of lore and elder legend; the people made home upon those slopes and herded their flocks on the pastures, growing ever more prosperous upon that land. Alas, the folk flourished and built their proud grey walls and citadel domes – no greater a kingdom was known there to have dwelled.

 

On one summer day, from over the hills came a group of young huntsmen, each proud in their skill and brash in their actions, daring one another to venture into the dark forest and catch a prize. Amongst these youths was one named Bard, most renowned in his skill amongst his peers. Cautious was the hunter for many a time as a child had he been bid by his father to no further than the meadows upon the banks of Celduin, warning his son that no good shall wait for him in the shadows of the forests. Yet his father held not such advice to his heart as he perished in those very black depths, leaving no trace for his son to follow.

By the turn of the hour as the spires of Dale disappeared beyond the hills and the fog began to creep from the forest under the red dusk, out from the forest came a fox, donned in a beautiful red coat. By the flocks the creature skulked, lying close to the sweeping grasses, hidden from the grazing herds. To the attention of the youths the beast came, and alas, full of mirth they called Bard on – to catch the splendid game to prove his worth. Though cautious in his nature, Bard could not have disagreed the fox to be a treasure of a catch and thus he notched his bow and trained it upon the scampering beast.

A silver whistling by was the arrow as it was shot through the air, aiming for the red hide but alas it missed and pierced the dewy ground for the fox leaped from its hiding. The beast stared back at the hunters as amber light of the setting sun enveloped it, catching on the fur and to their surprise the most peculiar was bound about the fox’s neck: a collar of glinting green gems! Yet two more arrows were released from Bard’s bow, but every time they met the dew of the green pastures as the fox scampered away, into the black borders of the forest.

Deaf to the laughter of the fellow huntsmen, Bard stalked forth through the pastures, beckoned on by his wounded pride. Amongst the trees through the mingling fog the hunter caught the sight of the fox, its red tale flashing in the murk.

Giving chase to the teasing creature Bard swiftly followed the red coated stranger, over the mossy stumps and the curling ferns, about the gnarled pines and birch to where the fog thickened and the creature went. Though the shadows deepened and Bard was certain he was long due to turn and come away to the pastures, he was sure the fox neared his grasp -  teasing him into the pursuit. But alas the creature leaped onto a pine, torn from its roots yet leaning upon the red bark of a neighbour, and disappeared on the other end amongst the ferns.

In suit Bard followed the fox but out from beyond the fallen tree flew an eagle-owl; a cruel creature with cries of slaughter, its talons piercing Bard’s bare arms as he shielded himself from the fierce onslaught. Away the maddened bird was shunned and Bard continued on his way – over the fallen pine and found himself before a bubbling river cutting through a meadow of moss amongst the circling birch where at last the fog parted and there on the bank stood a phantom in white.

Eyes carved of diamond and pearl looked down onto Bard, set into a face of the fair-moon’s metal for it glowed as thus and about it slipped the maiden-hair of silver as though an angel’s crown. A ghost stood before Bard, all white from the skin to the gowns it was but for the collar of green stone about the fair neck and a red silken coat draped upon the shoulders.

“Be not fearful, Bowman, for I intend you no harm and I confess to be the one who lured you to these depths.” Spoke the red coated stranger.

“That I cannot doubt,” Awe struck spoke the dismayed hunter, “A magnificent creature I had chased, thinking what blessing had I earned and before me once more it stands. Yet may I ask, for what purpose you brought me to these lands?”

“For game I admit," Replied the ghost, accompanied with a smile, "So charmed I had become by you for in some misted dream I recall your face and I wished you for myself.” 

The hunter could not bear to be angered with the creature for he was allured by the stranger; so lovely he seemed, fairer than any woman or great noble yet stranger than any folk.

“Then I ask you, to come away with me, to the city of Dale – this place is not for those such as you.” Alas Bard held his hand for the stranger who took it cautiously.

Though they touched and Bard felt the presence of the other, he was still sure the man before him would dispel as fog in the rays of the morn yet there they walked hand in hand through the woodland thickets – the brambles and nettles seemingly parting before them. But as the red light of dusk began to seep through the trees fog began to return and thicken like milk about the wanderers.

Desperate the leave Bard pushed onwards to the light, but as he breached the forest girdle his hand slipped from the stranger's. Bard turned back to the black trees but the depths of fog were empty. Upon a branch, somewhere in the trees sat a hawk, glaring down onto the hunter. The bird cried out and fled, its call echoing amongst the trees.

Alas, Bard remained alone under the bruised sky, wondering if he dreamt it all, dazed by a knock to the head when the owl came barrelling into the hunter. So he set the venture to the back of his thoughts and began the return journey home.

 

 

Many long years passed over Dale, seasons came and passed and many woes and merriments came to those folk. In that time much joy came to Bard the Bowman for he offered his love to a fair girl and she returned his courting twice fold. Alas on one summer the proud and fair ones joined hands and became husband a wife. A girl was born to the young couple and her they named Sigrid and never happier could they have been.

When the child was but three on the autumn of that year Bard went away to hunt by the girdle of the woods. A calm day it that was, not a stir of the wind, not a black cloud in sight and all seemed in the hunter’s favour; the thickets were rich with game, the weather remained fair and mild though the sun of the previous setting portended wild winds and icy torments. Yet at last, the good fortune began to break; on the turn of the hour as Bard began the journey to the city a fog began to drift about the valleys, shunning him on to the homeward path. But as he began to leave the forest edge he saw on the lower hills a proud elk wandering.

Alone the beast was, not a companion in sight and what a fine creature it was – untouched by the froes of passions of that season, saved from hunger and battle – what a waste it would be to not try and arrow upon the beast, thought the huntsman. Alas, the bow was notched and trained upon the elk, but before it could be loosened Bard caught the grey shadows of the wolves upon the pastures, creeping unto the catch.

Wisely, the huntsman decided not to try his chance against the wolves but instead witnessed their stalking before the elk caught their presence, reared and galloped away into the thickets of the woods giving the grey fiends chase. Bard did not know how the antlers of the great elk had not caught upon woodland tangles, but he did not remain to witness the unfolding of the hunt.

In the glint of the red dusk, Bard was sure he saw the shimmer of a collar about the elk’s neck, but alas it may have only been a trick of the murk.

 

 

Years continued to pass and woe came with the tidings of the seasons; the Master of the city, who guided it in the absence of the true king, fell into illness and soon met his death and thus the folk fell into dismay for there was an absence of guidance in their work. Alas the good folk of the courts searched for the one deserving of the crown – a descendant of the noble line.

Many months passed without avail but upon one day they found a huntsman of the city, a husband and a father of two, one of the lowly fellows of the folk. By the lineage of Girion he came about, who allowed the city of Dale fall into ruin upon the account of his mysterious disappearance in the forest depths. None knew unto what fate Girion had stumbled but there had been whispers of the fiend he claimed to be hunting that once slipped from his grasp – determined to catch the beast and seize the hurt to his pride. An end was the beast to the king, denying the good folk of Dale a lord they deserved. But now, it was all just lore.

Alas, Bard the Bowman was crowned the King of Dale - cautious in his ascent to royalty, doubtful in his every word but ever merciful and wise. On the turn of the year, a third child was gifted to the King and Queen but at the cost of the mother’s life.

Tidings of grief came and passed as the wash of seasonal colours though forever a wound remained in the King’s heart.

By the third turn of the years a peculiar thing Bard noticed at celebrations and feast: ladies of all noble names coming forth with seductive words and manners, shushed on by their mothers and fathers. Kindly the King’s advisors and friends offered counsel to pay no mind to this folly for those sloe-eyed maidens wished nought but the fabled coffers of gold and silver of Girion’s treasuries – a fable indeed. But most of all they wished grasp the tale in shape: the emeralds of Girion, a collar of green gems set in crowns of gold, told to have disappeared and long lost, moulded by the craftsmen of the dwarvish folk before they returned to the mountain rock.

In good faith Bard laughed away such tales and thought none of them for many a year and alas seasons came and passed; the folk of Dale prospered in their settled comforts, making well in trade and craft, becoming ever more noble in the passing words of the merchants and distant lords. Even the grief of the King soon became a distant memory as he watched his children come of age, becoming ever more fair and noble.

However, upon the day Bain, son of Bard, was named the crown prince, a certain gloom came over the King – distant he became, weary and seemingly elder than he was before. Alas his kind children took pity upon their father and bid him away, to take a hunt in the woods and stray from his duties for at least one eve. Thus, upon the very next day a party of mounted huntsmen were called forth and Bard set away to the hills by the dark forest, as he once did as a lowly youth of the city.

In the passing hours the huntsmen dwelled deeper into the forest thickets, through the opening glades chasing the deer and boar, catching good game to boast at the set feasting tables. But in the crimson dusk as the fog began to creep, out from the brambles and ferns onto the woodland path came a fox donned in a bright red coat and upon its neck a collar of green gems. Before a whisper could have passed amongst the huntsmen away the fox sprung, along the woodland path through the fog. 

Mercilessly the huntsmen gave chase, spurring on their horses by the narrow path. In some confusion and dismay of the fog the huntsmen lost their way as the fox swiftly darted into the fern thickets amongst the birches, but alas Bard did not lose his sight of the teasing creature and continued on his way but soon enough the path became too overgrown for his steed and thus he dismounted and bid it on its way.

A ghost amongst the murky shadows Bard crept, keeping his bow trained on anything that dared to shift for the fox was long since gone from his sight. It was a vain hope for the fog to ease away for it only thickened and crawled, hiding all from the bowman’s keen eyes. Alas, with the darkening eve Bard grew weary of the hunt and at last, a blessing, he came to an opening amongst the murk, to a mossy pasture where a bubbling river ran, cutting through the even ground.

In grief exhaustion Bard collapsed before the swift stream unto his knees and quenched his thirst with the stream water cupped in his hands; cool and sweet the water was, soothing ever crack of his parched throat. He closed his eyes and felt the fog drift about him, caressing his hot skin, clammy with sweat of the chase. Given the chance, he would have allowed the wisps to cradle him asleep but an uneasiness kept the huntsman from his rest; soft steps strode across the moss, gentle and swift, but careful about the Bowman as if fearing to spook the animal.

“Woeful it seems that you never told me by what name to call you, though your proposed me your heart.” Said Bard, his eyes marked on the river froth, once more his throat began to dry and burn faltering his words.

“Thranduil is my calling.” Whispered the gentle voice, but a drift of the settling fog.

The two wanderers passed into silence, the white figure standing over the hunter, his pearl eyes trailing the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the bow of his neck – only a silver away the white fingers trailed those contours, but never daring to touch.

“I thought I had dreamt you on that eve, just a fancy of my mind.” Spoke Bard, the words a grim smile on his lips.

“You hadn’t.” Assured Thranduil.

“Then why did you let go of my hand?”

“I am bound to these lands: A step beyond the forest edge and I am twisted into the beastly shape – it is a sad existence I admit.”

“But you agreed to leave with me.” Snapped the Bowman.

“There was a thought on my mind that I was not certain if I was about to make the right turn. So I tested my decision – if the bindings of this dwelling were to have given me leave, a good decision I was certain to have made. But alas – it seems I had been wrong.” The ghost considered for a moment and then spoke again, “You have been away for some time, what fortunes have come to pass to you?” Thranduil’s hand drifted on the Bowman’s shoulder, his touch lingering.

“Many things, a crown for one.” Bard reached and intertwined his hand with Thranduil’s own.

“Have you loved any other?” Asked the ghost.

“Aye, there was a maiden, we were married and loved dearly one another.”

“What of children?” Urgently asked the ghost.

“Three - two girls and a boy, every one of them noble and kind.” The white hand in Bard’s palm became rigid and clawed – though struck dumb with shock.

“Your son soon to be crowned?” Asked Thranduil, his voice bitter.

“I would imagine so, he is a man grown.” Bard replied with a smile.

They remained in silence for some time until the white ghost knelt by the huntsman’s side and spoke in a falsely sweet voice, “You should drink, you seem weary.” It seemed only right to Bard and though his mind began to drift he leaned forward and gathered water into his palms and let the cool blackness pass the breach of his cracked lips. He was sure if it had not been for the hand upon his shoulder he would have toppled into the water.

“My poor Bowman, you are so tired.” Murmured the ghost, “Rest.” He pulled on Bard’s shoulder and the huntsman could not resist resting against the other man’s chest, limp like a child’s doll.

Dazed, Bard looked up to his kindly companion and caught the glint of the emeralds upon the phantom’s throat, he reached out and trailed his fingertips across the edges – worn away by time and constant wear through the thickets of brambles and ferns.

“A strange thing you are,” Whispered Bard, “How did you come by such jewels that bind your neck? They seem so familiar.”

“Hush,” Cautioned Thranduil, his white hair sweeping over Bard, “You are weary, you must rest a while.” The huntsman couldn’t help but agree as his eyelids began to droop and limbs felt heavy and loose. With every breath the world grew darkened and blurred, rocking him into the lull of sleep in the arms of the pale ghost. Yet Bard forced himself to remain conscious, restraining himself from the thoughts of comfort and rest.

“I will not rest until you tell me.” Insisted Bard, his fingers continuing to trail about the emeralds, brushing against the skin of the phantom’s throat.

“Fine, if only you promise to rest after I have told all there is to tell.”

“I promise.”

“As you wish," Sighed Thranduil, “You would not know, my folk once were a noble race, dwelling in these forests, harbouring skill and knowledge of the passing ages – I was one amongst many and our lives were long and precious. All was well until darkness came to the kingdom and the green wood deepened with murk and despair, many of our folk became diseased by it, twisted and withered by woe and scorn, too proud to ask for aid. 

“Alas, many fled and sought refuge in solitude, myself being one amongst those. So long I had been gone from the bountiful halls of my folk I did not know them to perish – and so I was alone. Yet one day a group of hunters came riding through the forest, slaughtering all upon their way. They went upon their own paths in the wood and agreed to meet by the pastures by the eve.

“So it happened that one amongst them found me, their king, a proud lord. He was keen to keep me for his own. He asked me to leave with him on my own terms but I saw the rope in his hands and I ran, but he chased me and pushed me to the ground, binding my hands with tethers yet I escaped with bloodied palms and fled to the black depths.” Thranduil leaned away from the man in his arms and began to pull him to his feet though he seemed ready to topple at any moment.

“I thought myself free of the king but soon he returned, caught me and collared me, calling me a wretched beast, pronouncing that I should be branded like one, cursing my very being for my decline to belong to him.” The pale ghost smiled and brushed his gentle fingers over the bowman’s cheek, his lips ghosted about Bard’s own, but there was no kindness in his eyes – only the bubbling malice – yet the huntsman saw none of it for his mind was so far gone.

“I pulled away from the man”, Thranduil leaned from the huntsman, “I began to run to the open land, hoping seek freedom in the light,” the ghost spoke, his voice becoming harsher and harsher as his scowl grew wider, “but alas I found myself in the skin of a beast – as so I should be by the word of the king.” He turned Bard till his back was to the frothing black river.

Bard could expel no word, his eyes fixed to the green jewels, his fingers drifting about them – to the green and over the white - his skin ashen and covered in a film of sweat, his throat rolling with a dry click.

“The foolish man fell to my hands after my anger broke its bindings, but I found no freedom after my skin was casted red.” With a feral laugh said the ghost, his teeth bared, “So I cursed the line of his noble blood, intent on severing the vermin that had come from his loins until none remained.”

“The man- his name, tell me his name.” Bard spoke, his voice barely heard.

“You know of him - his name is of no secret.” Grinned the ghost, walking the Bowman nearer and nearer to the river edge.

“Then speak it.” Pleaded Bard, his eyes barely open, his voice but a whisper of the wind, nothing of life remained lingering in his flesh - nought but a corpse was held in the phantom's arms.

And thus, something changed in the ghost’s eyes, his eyes drifting about the man in his grasp, “I should have never let you- “, Whispered the phantom in fleeting words, the anger stealing away just for a moment, “I should have taken my chance- “

Bard’s fingers drew over the ghost’s throat, “Speak,” He struggled, “Speak his name.”

“His name," Spoke Thranduil, "was Girion.” And all feral rage was gone.

At once Bard gasped to life, his hands bore into Thranduil’s neck, twisting the band of green jewels.

“No!” Cried out Thranduil, grasping for Bard’s hands, to free the collar of gold and green, “No! Seize yourself, you fool!” The gold twisted and creaked as Thranduil desperately clawed Bard’s wrists to wrench himself from the hold.

But at last the fetter broke and the huntsmen stumbled away, his eyes glazed, fixed to the gems in his hand as they fell from the golden wires like fat drops of rain, and at last he met the river’s breach, faltering for a moment before he began his fall.

The ghost cried out the hunter's name, his hands snatching on the ashen wrists but they slipped free. Into the black river the bowman fell, lost to the churn of the spinning white froth, casted to the water’s wild embrace. 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending is completely ambiguous and open for your interpretations, any actions are "open-ended" and for you to decide what they meant or how they occurred. (that may have had something to do with my laziness but i also really didn't want to over-read the character motives)
> 
> Feel free to harass me on [ tumblr](http://homicidalmonday.tumblr.com/)


End file.
